by Maynard Sims
Over by the filing cabinets, Eddie Hampshire was clutching his shoulder and rocking back and forth, hot tears of agony dribbling down his face. He was locked in his own private hell of pain and was taking no notice of Saul Goldberg behind the desk. Goldberg was pulling the shirt from the waistband of his trousers and undoing the buttons.
When the wrinkled white skin of his stomach was exposed Goldberg gripped the shard of glass tightly and drew it across his flaccid belly. For a second nothing happened, and then small beads of blood appeared at the edges of the cut. Using the glistening red dots as a guide Goldberg slashed himself again, cutting deeper this time, carving through the skin and reaching the layer of fat beneath.
He felt no pain and no fear, even when the blood started to pour from the wound. He gripped the glass and cut again.
“Hey!” Eddie Hampshire finally noticed what was going on behind the desk. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered across the office. “Holy shit! What do you think you’re doing?”
As Hampshire leaned forward to peer at the self-inflicted wound, Goldberg made a noise in his throat that sounded like a growl. He was staring up at Hampshire but was not seeing him. Instead he could see only John Holly. It was Holly who was staring back at him; Holly’s eyes boring into his; Holly’s lips curling into a twisted smile. “Good-bye, Saul.”
“Fuck you, John,” Goldberg said, and the hand holding the glass arced upward, catching Eddie Hampshire under the chin and slicing up through his mouth. As his tongue was speared, his eyes widened in shock. Goldberg yanked back on the glass and slashed Hampshire’s neck, severing the carotid artery. Blood spurted from the wound, and Hampshire toppled backward, falling to the floor, hands clutching his neck in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood from his body.
Goldberg took no more notice of him. He lay the glass on the desk and examined the wound in his stomach. It was pouring blood but was deep enough now to insert his fingers. Using both hands he burrowed into the wound and started to open it wider. Still there was no pain, even when the wound was gaping open and he stared at the white coils of his intestines.
He gave a small giggle and plunged his hand into the coils, feeling them slip and slide around. His fingers closed over a white, slimy tube and he wrenched it out, dragging it up to his lips. As his teeth bit through the tough membrane, bitter fluid flowed into his mouth.
It was then his mind cleared, the fog clouding his thoughts being blown away as though caught in a gale. He started to gag, and then, when he realized what he had done to himself, started to scream. The scream lasted until his eighty-three-year-old heart exploded and he collapsed dead across the desk.
In the corridor, John Holly took his hands away from the door, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his brow, and walked slowly back to the elevator.
Alice glanced round as John Holly opened the door of the BMW and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Well?” she said.
John Holly sat behind the wheel, dark glasses hiding his eyes, black hair swept back from his handsome face. “It’s a shame. I thought he might be more amenable with you there, but I guessed I wouldn’t get anywhere with him, even before we walked into his office. As things stand now, Saul Goldberg will not be making any more deals.” He said the last with a smile.
“You killed him?”
“He left me no choice.”
“I see.”
He laid his hand on her arm. “No, you don’t. You don’t see at all. My methods repulse you. I can see it in your eyes. They’re more eloquent than your words could ever be.”
She stared out through the car’s windshield. On the busy London streets people were going about their daily business lives: carrying laptop cases, dressed in smart suits with one hand permanently welded to their ears as they conducted cell phone calls while walking along, dashing to get to their next important meeting. By the entrance of the underground station, a busker was strumming a battered guitar and singing a bad version of Oasis’s “Champagne Supernova.” Normal lives—forbidden fruit to her now.
She wished she’d had the presence of mind to grab Goldberg’s gun when it fell to the floor. She could have used it to blast a hole in John Holly’s saturnine face. She could have ended this nightmare right there, in that moment. But then this particular nightmare would only be replaced by another. “Where now?” she said.
“Harrow,” Holly said and twisted the key in the ignition.
“What’s in Harrow?”
“You’ll see when we get there,” he said, then eased the BMW out into traffic.
Chapter Fourteen
Harrow, London, England
Karolina Adamczyk sat watching the news on a large plasma TV. Fighting and bombings in Afghanistan and Iraq; trouble on the world’s stock markets; the abduction and murder of a child in the north of the country.
Bad news. It was the same the world over.
The man emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of food. He was short, muscular, and dangerous looking, with a scar on his face that ran from just under his left eye, down his unshaven cheek to the corner of his mouth, where it hitched up his top lip in a permanent Elvis sneer. He set the tray down on a small table to the left of her. “Jedza,” he said. Eat.
She lifted her arm. Her wrists were shackled by steel cuffs attached to a chain that was bolted to the floor. “Unlock these and I might.”
He glared at her. “You must eat,” he said.
She glanced at the food. A rich, meaty stew; beef with carrots, onions, and pearl barley, topped with white, fluffy dumplings. She was ravenous but determined to pursue her hunger strike because she knew it rattled him. “Fuck you!” she said.
His face flushed and his nostrils flared as he raised his hand to strike her.
“I dare you,” she said defiantly, but suddenly terrified she had pushed him too far.
“Little bitch!” He took a threatening step forward.
“Jozef, enough!”
Wladyslaw Kaminski walked into the room. His entry into the house had been so quiet neither Karolina nor Jozef had heard him.
Jozef dropped his arm and scurried out.
Wladyslaw smiled and sat down on the couch next to Karolina. “You shouldn’t tease Jozef so,” he said. “He hasn’t my self-restraint.”
Karolina glared at him. This was the man who’d swept her off her feet, persuaded her to quit her university studies and accompany him on a mad, impulsive trip to England. The man who had, in fact, abducted her and brought her to London, making her a prisoner in this uncomfortable old house on one of Harrow’s busiest streets.
Despite his deception, Karolina still found him attractive. His fair hair was long, as were the lashes that framed eyes of the deepest blue. She could drown in those eyes. Just being in the same room as him made her heart race. She struggled to keep her feelings under control, using her anger to neutralize the spell he cast over her, but it was fairly futile. He was the first man she had ever really fallen in love with, and it was difficult to deal with the fact that he had only been using her. What made it more difficult was the fact that she didn’t know what he wanted with her.
“How much longer are you going to keep me here?” she said
He rested a hand on her thigh, making her flesh tingle. “Not very much longer. In fact you could be out of here soon. Sooner than you think.”
Something cold slipped down her spine. Soon? She was aware he couldn’t let her go. She would go straight to the police and he knew this. What then? Was he planning to kill her? She’d seen too much; she knew too much. It was the only course of action left open to him. Warm tears slid down her cheeks. The thought she would never see her parents or home again was suddenly unbearable.
“Why are you crying?” he said.
“You’re planning to kill me, like the others.” When she’d first arrived at the house, there were six other girls there. Now there was only her. She’d heard the screams, the comings and goings in the night.
He looked at her steadily and took her hand in his. “You’re not going to die,” he said. “That was never part of the plan. There are some people coming here this evening who want to meet you, and there’s every likelihood that you will be leaving with them.”
She searched for the truth in his eyes. “Why me? Why did you choose me?”
“You were chosen a long time ago, Karolina, because you’re special,” he said. “Now, eat your food. You need your strength.”
He left her, closing the door behind him. She leaned forward and sniffed the stew. It really did smell delicious. She picked up the spoon and took a tentative mouthful, chewing the tender meat and carrots, flavors exploding in her mouth. She took another mouthful, and then another, until the bowl was empty.
Chapter Fifteen
Inhale, and God approaches you. Hold the inhalation, and God remains with you. Exhale, and you approach God.
Hold the exhalation, and surrender to God.
—Krishnamacharya
Krakow, Poland
The double espresso was good, as good as he’d ever tasted. Jacek Czerwinski sat at an outside table overlooking the Rynek Glowny Central Square.
The Szara was his favorite restaurant. He knew the waiters and they knew him—hence the fantastic espresso. The restaurant was also a great place to people watch, one of his favorite pastimes. It was a mindless occupation that gave him a chance to organize his thoughts. The restaurant was his little oasis of peace in an otherwise frenetic life.
So when someone pulled up a chair and sat down next to him, he was less than pleased at the intrusion. He turned and was about to say something to the interloper when he stopped, his mouth working but no sound issuing from his lips.
The man who was now sharing his table was huge, black, and his face was marked with distinctive cuts, long healed, though they stretched when he flashed a friendly smile.
“Can I help you?” Jacek managed at last.
“You’ve already helped me,” the stranger said in faultless Polish shaded by an American accent. “More than you know.” He stuck out a huge hand. “Jason Pike,” he said.
Jacek narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I assumed so,” he said and shook the hand. The grip was strong, giving Jacek the impression that if Pike had it in mind to crush his fingers, he could. With ease.
“You know who I am?”
“You were described to me. You told Cyril Adamczyk to come and see me.”
“Ah, yes. Mr. Adamczyk. Another tragic case,” Pike said, staring at a horse-drawn carriage as it made its sightseeing circuit of the square. “You have a beautiful city,” he said.
Jacek refused to be sidetracked. “You sent him to see me. Why?”
“I thought you may be able to help him,” Pike said. “You’ve had experience. You’ve taken on several missing-person cases in the last few years, and, as I’m led to believe, solved a number of them.”
Jacek leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. “Considering how many I’ve taken on, those results are pretty negligible. The ones I have solved have been simple runaways. They’re pretty easy. The others…well, divorce cases are much simpler, believe me. And I’ve had my fair share of those. Bread and butter.”
“Yes, I know. In fact I know a lot about you, Jacek,” he said. “Jacek Czerwinski. Forty-four. Educated at Warsaw University. Graduated with degrees in law and psychology. Joined the police in 1986. Rose through the ranks quickly to Inspector. Left them and started your own detective agency. Why did you leave the police?”
Jacek picked up his coffee and took a sip, staring at Pike over the rim of the cup. “You tell me. You seem to know enough about me.”
Pike smiled. “I suspect it was because your niece, Julia, disappeared, and you felt the police weren’t doing enough to find out where she’d gone. So you decided to quit and track her down yourself. Correct?”
Jacek shrugged. “Close enough.”
“But you never found her.” It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Jacek said. “I never did.”
“Taking on missing-person cases has become something of a crusade for you now, hasn’t it? You only take expenses on these cases. Otherwise you waive your fee. In my book, that’s a crusade. A man driven by passion.” He smiled. “I suppose that explains the other work you do.”
“As I said, bread and butter. Divorce cases pay my rent.”
There was a silence between the two men.
“Have you been following me?” Jacek said at last.
Pike nodded.
“For how long?”
“A few days.”
“Why?”
“I needed to know if I could trust you. When I saw them break into your apartment yesterday, I guessed you must be okay.” He summoned a waiter and ordered two more coffees.
“You know who they are? The people who broke in?”
Pike nodded his head slowly. “Oh yes, I know them. Bad people. The worst. It was lucky you weren’t there. I think they might have killed you. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t killed you already. You’re getting too close to them.”
“The police don’t believe me.”
“Can you blame them?”
Jacek sighed. “I suppose not.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Okay, enough pissing around. What do you want from me?”
Pike glanced round as the waiter reappeared. “Ah, the coffee.”
He said nothing until the waiter had moved on to another table. “I want you to help me bring them down.”
Jacek’s eyes opened in surprise. “What makes you think I can do that? I’ve been trying for the last few years, and I’ve gotten nowhere. Almost all my investigations have ended in failure. I get so far and then hit a brick wall. It’s the classic, as one door closes, another slams in your face scenario. All I’ve managed to find out so far is that their influence runs deep, through every strata of society.”
“Yes, you’re right. You’re up against some very powerful people. But there’s more to it than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Pike took a mouthful of coffee, then sat back in his seat. “Tell me, Jacek, do you believe in the supernatural, the paranormal?”
The question came from left field, and Jacek was unprepared for it. “If you’re talking about ghosts and séances and things like that, then no. No, I don’t think I do. Nor do I believe in an afterlife, despite being born and raised a Catholic. I do think though we, as a race, are sometimes influenced by forces we don’t really understand. Whether or not they’re supernatural, I wouldn’t like to say. Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know if you have an open mind or a closed mind. Because what I’m about to tell you falls outside what we call common experience. Your answer demonstrates that your mind is more open than some. What would you say if I were to tell you that the human race is not the superior species on this planet? What would you say if I were to tell you that there is a race of beings on this earth who, if circumstances were right, could wipe us out, erase us from existence?”
Jacek looked at him steadily. “I’d say you did too much ganja in the past.” He smiled. “I’d say you were crazy. Demented. A nut job.” He got to his feet. “I’d say this conversation is over. Good-bye, Mr. Pike. I hope we never have occasion to meet again.” He walked away from the restaurant. He’d gone a few yards when he looked back. “Oh, and stop following me.”
“I can prove it, if you like. But then I don’t think I have to. At least, not to you,” Pike called after him.
“Some other time maybe,” Jacek said and continued walking.
Pike watched him go, then reached across the table and picked up his cup. Good coffee, he thought as he sipped at his double espresso and waited. He signaled to the waiter to bring a bottle of vodka. After fifty yards Jacek stopped walking, turned, and came back to the table.
He pulled out the chair and sat, dragging his half-drunk coffee toward him. “Okay
,” he said, taking a sip. “I’m listening.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Curiosity…and stupidity probably. And the fact that I don’t like being played, and that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?”
Pike smiled. “Yes, I am, in a way. But only for the greater good.”
“Which is?”
“As I said, the survival of the human race.”
Jacek looked at him for a long moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Deadly,” Pike said.
Jacek poured some vodka into their glasses. “Then let me go first and tell you whether I believe in the supernatural, the paranormal.”
Chapter Sixteen
Harrow, London, England
“So why have you brought me here?” Alice said as the BMW pulled up outside the redbrick Edwardian house in Harrow View.
“All in good time,” Holly said.
Alice peered through the side window. The house looked semiderelict. Strips of paint hung from the front door like peeling skin, showing the rotting wood beneath, and on the walls clung patches of lichen, cancerous growths eating into the fabric of the brickwork. Listless net curtains hung from the windows, so filthy they looked nearly black, and the windows themselves were coated in road grime and hadn’t been cleaned for years.
“It doesn’t look very inviting, I’ll grant you. It’s better inside,” Holly said.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“Patience. You’ll see soon enough.”
At the front door, Holly took a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. The door opened smoothly. Alice had expected it to creak on rusty hinges. He’d been telling the truth; it was better inside but only marginally. The carpet in the hallway looked new, but the paper on the walls looked tired and probably early 1990s in design. A stairway led off from the hall, the treads carpeted in the same brown as the hallway, but a single, naked bulb offered scant illumination, making the stairway dark and foreboding.
